


Hopeless

by orphan_account



Category: Starfighter (Comic)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Domestic Violence, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-24
Updated: 2012-08-24
Packaged: 2017-11-12 19:04:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Praxis' perspective on the relationship between Abel and Cain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hopeless

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote this on my phone one night (I _know_ ) when I couldn't sleep. I've tried to organize it into a more logical sequence, but I apologize if it doesn't flow very well. Partially inspired by this image, which you can find in the extras section on the Starfighter website: http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lky9a9YWAX1qg6x08o1_1280.jpg

Praxis has known Cain since they joined the Alliance together, and in that time has seen him run through navigators as if they’re disposable—he’s had three in the last six months alone; but this time, with Abel, it’s different. For whatever reason Cain seems dangerously obsessed with this one—has forbidden every fighter aboard the Sleipnir from looking at, talking to, or even going _near_ him—and the only person who can’t see how disturbing it is seems to be Abel himself.

Praxis thinks Abel will finally come to his senses one night when Cain—clearly drunk and dressed in nothing but his underwear, his knuckles bloodied and deep scratches all over his chest—staggers after Abel, who is attempting to run away from him, in full view of at least ten other fighters, who have all congregated in the corridors to watch the spectacle go down. Cain screams Abel’s name, calls him a whore, spits at anyone who gets too close, and threatens to slit Abel’s throat if he doesn’t stop running.

Nobody wants to incur Cain’s wrath and so no one stops to help Abel, who’s obviously been beaten, until Praxis manages to grab him by the arm, while Cain is distracted trying to punch another fighter, and pull him into a darkened supply cabinet. He puts a hand over Abel’s mouth, gently, and breathes, “Not a word.” Abel quickly nods his head, wide-eyed and petrified, and Praxis removes his hand.

Abel’s got a split lip and a bloodied nose, and there are finger-mark shaped bruises on his throat. Cain has clearly gone to town on him tonight, and Praxis has never hated anyone as much as he hates Cain, has never felt so disgusted. Abel seems so small to him, so delicate, that Praxis doesn't know how Cain can put his hands on him in good conscience. But then he remembers Cain doesn't have a conscience, and that knocking around someone who can't defend himself is unlikely to be the worst thing he's ever done.

Praxis lets Abel sleep in his bed that night after he’s patched him up, though he’s careful not to lay a finger on him. He wishes he could show Abel that it doesn't have to be the way it is with Cain, that not everyone gets off on violence and degradation, but he doesn't want to scare him away and besides: he's taking a large enough risk as it is—Cain is a jealous little prick, and if he ever finds out about this he'll probably murder both of them in their sleep.

It doesn’t matter, though. Abel is gone in the morning, nothing but a dark bloodstain on the pillow to suggest he was ever there at all, and Praxis doesn’t see him again until lunchtime, when he spots him sitting alone in the mess and pushing food around on his plate, a miserable look on his face and his chin rested in his palm.

Praxis makes to approach him when he notices Cain and stops in his tracks. His hands clench at his sides—he hates that Cain has somehow managed to intimidate him, too—but he stays where he is. Starting a brawl in the mess over some navigator who doesn’t even belong to him is the last thing he needs after what went down on the Tiberius.

And so Praxis watches instead, resolving to step in—to hell with the consequences—if Cain tries to have another go at Abel. But this seems rather unlikely: Cain is obviously grovelling today, Praxis thinks with loathing, as he watches the sick bastard clumsily attempt to make a cup of tea. Praxis knows Cain doesn’t drink tea—all he ever drinks in the morning is that bitter, military-issue shit that’s supposed to taste like coffee—and so he can only assume that it’s for Abel.

It’s clear the bastard doesn't have a clue what he's doing: He only dips the bag into the water twice before adding too much sugar and milk, and Praxis doubts Cain’s ever made tea before. He’s likely never done a selfless thing in his miserable fucking life. But when he sets the cup down in front of Abel and sits beside him, putting his head in his hands, Abel watches him with a conflicted expression, as if he doesn’t quite know whether to comfort Cain or run, and accepts it anyway.

Praxis strains to overhear them, and discreetly moves closer to their table:

“I didn’t want to hit you,” Cain mutters, head still in his hands.

“Well you did,” Abel says shortly, fingers wrapped tightly around the mug of tea.

Cain looks up at him then, swiping a hand over his face, and says, “Where were you last night?” He sounds tense now, as if he’s on the brink of going off on Abel again.

Perhaps thinking the same thing, Abel averts his gaze. “With a friend,” he replies tersely, and primly sips at his tea.

Praxis watches as Cain goes very red, a muscle working in his jaw, before the prick apparently decides it’s not worth it to pick another fight. He clears his throat and says gruffly, “Are you alright?”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

At that moment a couple of smirking fighters walk by and offer a snide remark. Cain whips around, growling, “Fuck off!" and Abel tries to hide behind his hands. Turning back to him, Cain attempts to touch his shoulder, but Abel shrugs him off.

“What the fuck do you want me to say?” Cain snaps at him, clearly getting frustrated now.

“I don’t know, maybe that you’re sorry?” Abel snaps back at him, flushed and scowling. “How about starting there? Do you have any idea what you _did_ to me last night? If I’ve got any sense left at all I’ll report you right now and get a transfer. I can’t do this anymore, I just… I can’t.” He moves to get up when Cain clamps a hand down on his forearm and forces him to sit.

“I’m sorry,” he says, so quietly Praxis can barely hear him.

Abel releases a breath and slumps forward. “You’re sorry?”

“You know I am. Do you want to hear me say it again?”

“I won’t be your punching bag anymore.”

“No one said you had to be.”

“It’ll just happen again,” Abel begins, chewing on his lip. “You’ll drink and—”

“I’ll stop,” Cain tells him through clenched teeth. “I won’t drink anymore, alright? Just don’t… don’t transfer. You can’t.”

Abel regards him wearily, but Praxis can tell by the set of his shoulders that he’s given in. Again. Praxis can’t decide whether to be disappointed or disgusted.

Cain touches the side of Abel’s face then, apparently uncaring who’s watching, and Abel flinches away from him. “Don’t,” he murmurs, shrinking back into himself.

“Baby, come on; don’t be like this,” Cain implores in a voice too gentle to suit him, sliding closer to Abel on the metal bench so that their arms are pressed together. Abel leans into him a little and then one of Cain’s hands disappears beneath the table, along with one of Abel’s. Praxis lets out a low hiss of disgust. They must be _holding hands_ , he thinks, or at least groping at each other.

He can’t watch anymore. He storms out of the mess and waits outside for Abel, unable to hold his tongue another day. When Abel finally steps out into the corridor alone and heads for the lift, his lips are full and swollen and there are red marks on his neck, smattered there along with the bruises. Praxis’ stomach tightens in revulsion.

“Abel.”

Abel whirls around, clearly startled to see Praxis standing there, and lets out a low breath, skin darkening to pink. “Praxis.”

Praxis steps to him. “You’re not going to ask for a transfer.” It is a statement, not a question.

“I…” Abel opens and closes his mouth, clearly at a loss for words. “Thanks for last night,” he says finally, avoiding the issue. “Really. Thank you.”

“You think he’ll stop?” Praxis says then, unable to help himself. “He’ll do it again, Abel, and who knows—maybe next time he’ll make good on his promise and slit your throat. He’s _filth_ ,” he says through clenched teeth, unable to keep a lid on his anger and disgust. “I don’t know what it is you see in him but I can tell you right now that whatever it is, it’s not really there. He’s an animal, Abel. I don’t know what he’s done to you that makes you want to stay with him, but if you don’t get away from him soon, you're going to end up dead. Think about it.”

Abel’s expression grows steely, and Praxis can tell that he’s upset him. He doesn’t care. Telling Abel the truth about Cain—who is so _beneath_ him—is for his own good, and Praxis knows if he doesn’t tell Abel these things that no one else will.

“What he did was wrong, I get that, but you don’t know him, so don’t _say_ that about him.” Abel sucks in a deep breath, hands trembling at his sides.

“I do know him,” Praxis counters. “Better than you ever will. And he’s filth, Abel, that’s all he is. Filth.”

“I know he’s not like everyone else,” Abel snaps at him, “but you don’t know how hard he tries. You _don’t_.”

Praxis knows it’s a lost cause then and there. “I suppose not,” he says coldly, and Abel throws him a sharp look before he stalks away, not bothering even to hold the lift. Praxis stares at the closed doors long after Abel disappears behind them, and wonders whether the next time he sees Abel, it’ll be too late to save him from Cain.


End file.
